


On the Bus

by silversky



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Castiel, Awkward Dean, Awkward Flirting, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Punk Castiel, Tattooed Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silversky/pseuds/silversky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 months Dean’s been sharing the bus with his walking wet dream, and what does he have to show for it? Nothing but a burgeoning Pavlovian response to the smell of paint, and the knowledge that yes, it's very possible to want to kiss someone one second and strangle them the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Bus

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this ask: http://righteousman.co.vu/post/113780287304/no-but-superiority-complex-art-school-punk-cas (I swear I've seen links in posts before why is this so hard?)

This is pathetic. Completely, absolutely pathetic. In his 20 years of life Dean’s done a lot of stupid shit, but this is just sad. Even sadder than the time he and Charlie snuck out of his own birthday party to see the new Harry Potter movie and ended up getting lost in downtown Lawrence, the hardest-to-get-lost-in town in the world. Which wasn’t even his _fault,_ but of course no one—but Dean’s getting distracted. The awkwardness of calling your mom from the only strip joint in town has nothing on what Dean’s doing right now.

The bus stops, and Dean furiously turns his iPod on. A blast of sound hits his ears, the opening chords of—Dean peeks down to check—some Twenty One Pilots song audible to everyone around him. Which is the point, because, if Dean hadn’t mentioned before, he is pathetic.

And then _he_ gets on. Dean’s heart, already beating uncomfortably fast, goes into overdrive. Shockingly blue hair brushes ears studded with earrings, obscure script twines down wiry arms to meet black cuffs, and Castiel Novak is back in Dean’s life. 3 months, _3 months,_ Dean’s been sharing the bus with his walking wet dream, and what does he have to show for it? Nothing but a burgeoning Pavlovian response to the smell of paint, and the knowledge that yes, it's very possible to want to kiss someone one second and strangle them the next. A few minutes of stuttering and humiliation shouldn’t be that appealing, but as much as Dean feels the urge to slam his head into a wall after each conversation, they’re still the highlight of his day.

A thud, and Castiel is spread out next to Dean, his head tilted curiously. He grins suddenly, those blue eyes popping from eyeliner and shining in amusement, and asks a question. Or, he probably does, since Dean’s just realized his music is so loud _he can’t hear Castiel’s voice_. His deep, gravelly, sends-shivers-down-Dean’s-spine voice. Goddammit, he spent so much time angsting over this stupid idea, how did he not think of this? Dean yanks the headphones down to his neck quick enough to catch a snorting laugh and manages an only slightly squeaky “What?”

Castiel grins again, toothier than before, and says, “I asked ‘since when do you have any taste in music?’ You’re usually listening to some long-dead rock group from the 70’s; I’m surprised you even knew songs were still being made this century.”

Dean gapes. This is what he meant by these conversations being humiliating. He _likes_ his music, thank you very much. It may be old, but it’s his, and he’d normally never let some asshole insult it. But every time Castiel says something disparaging about Dean's music choices, really their only topic of conversation since they started talking, Dean just blushes and looks away. Damn his inability to be coherent in the face of tattoos. Still, at least he actually has a response ready today. “I—I thought I’d see what’s so great about one of the bands you’re always going on about.” Success! Barely a stutter to interrupt his masterfully crafted sentence.

“Really?” Castiel’s face shifts. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think the other boy looked excited, even nervous. But that was ridiculous, and Castiel was still talking. “So you picked up a Twenty One Pilots album. What do you think?”

Decision time. Tell the truth—that Dean hasn’t heard this much screaming and angst since Sam’s first, and only, basketball game—or lie his ass off to complete his transformation into a 13 year-old girl? “It’s cool. I like all the, um, yelling bits.” Nailed it. Middle school, here he comes.

Another laugh, this time accompanied by a graphite-coated hand reaching over Dean to pull the stop cord. “Nice try Winchester, but I call bullshit.” The bus grinds to a halt and Castiel stands, adjusting his bag before turning back to Dean, long fingers fiddling with the strap. He takes a deep breath and points at Dean. “This is taking too long. You. Me. The Roadhouse. Tonight. 8 o’clock. Be there.” Then he turns, almost dashing off the bus. Speechless, Dean’s still aware enough to notice how amazing Castiel’s black, paint-stained skinny jeans make him look.

"And stop staring at my ass!" makes it through the open window as the bus starts up. Dean glances out in time to see Castiel standing at the curb, arms crossed, cheeks burning, and can’t help but laugh. He may be pathetic, but if it gets Castiel to look at him like that, maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.


End file.
